Saturday, 12 December 2015

Her teeth were false and yet were true,
Fulfilled their role as she filled hers.
Her vowels it's said were like cut glass
And so she sounded like a snob,
A member of the upper class,
Her plastic teeth helped do the job.
Her eyes were big and soppy, sad.

He looked quite nice, but he was mad,
(Although his teeth were all his own)
He was quite barking and was prone
To mess things up and make a fuss,
Because he didn't understand
The plot and only wished to act
The part as he would act in life:
To take the woman by the hand,
Not caring she was some man's wife,
Not caring she was cold and posh,
And kiss her lips and suck her teeth
And feel those firm breasts underneath
Her stylish, winter macintosh,
And do such things as man might do,
Alone with woman and Rach. two.

(An article in the Daily Mail explained that Celia Johnson had broken her front teeth in her teens, when she fell on a stoney beach, and that Trevor Howard was a psychopath with very little understanding of the plot of Brief Encounter. He couldn't understand why they didn't just get stuck in, once they were alone.)

Saturday, 5 December 2015

He isn't in the cold air or the old stones,
He isn't in the vicar or the words,
Isn't hiding in the rhythm or the meter.
He isn't in the altar or a candle
Although He might be somewhere in the Handel.
He isn't in the creed or in the pews,
He isn't in the prayers, but in my bones
I know He's somewhere nearby
And if I close my eyes and try
I can find Him in the warmth right by heater.

When lycra content in thine underwear
Is high, intended to control thy flab,
In order for thy saggy image to repair
In profile, before the mirror, in drab
Winter, morning light. Do not haste to dress,
But dress with care, for the elastic strength
Of clothes designed to undertake the stress
Of holding back the bulge acquired through length
Of years is great. And so it doth resist
Thine hauling up, resulting in great harm
To ligaments and muscles. Then desist!
Pull gently, slowly with thy cautious arm.
Or else protect the muscles of thy back
And wear such pants as cut thy self some slack.

Not much united by fine herbs or wine
And pastry's only function's to restrain.
No chopping can disguise or redefine:
The nature of each element is plain.
For venison will never taste like hare,
And rabbit like a pheasant cannot be,
As each thing is itself and we're aware
Of how each creature formally was free.
And how it's former freedom made its taste,
Gave it its character which is unique.
And yet had we the chance would we make haste,
Had we some spell would we restore each beak,
Each hoof, back to its owner, new life grant?
And reason that it had the right to live
As it saw fit, or would we fail, give scant
Consideration to the choice, forgive
Ourselves for thinking of the present?

Tuesday, 1 December 2015

Mr and Mrs Nuance understandThe opposites which lie upon each hand,And weigh them up in every conversation,And live a life of permanent frustration.

Yet still, despite despising rules of thumb,They're sure that this approach is right.Although they know its crassTo draw conclusions. They react with frightWhen one is drawn from their debate. Alas!

For Mr and Mrs Nuance are getting old,Have children of their own who must be toldAbout the dreadful evils in the world.But Mr and Mrs Nuance wouldn't dareTo draw a moral line, they do not careFor old judgemental, black and white, and balkAt the idea of anything so crude,Preferring pastel shades and smudgy chalk;Delighting in the smugness they exude,And love that soft, warm, peachy coloured glow That comes from real balance.

And their children really like their dad and mumBecause they see from every point of view,Like cubists.

Yet it's trueThat where a void is, where there's only silence;Where to argueAnd to defend ideas informed by centuries of thoughtIs thought abhorrent;Where to put both points is always better Than to tell a truth;Where opinion firmly stated on one side Is always inferior to guidance,And guidance is inferior to trust in instinctsSince it still requires a guide,and nobody insists,And morals can't be taught,And we always must be worshippers of youth:Then from the mistsEmerge the milk sops Who will sell us to the DevilAnd condemn us all to Hell.